Five Stages Of Grief
by Death-Note-Fan89
Summary: Germany dies, and Italy is left to pick up the pieces. Can he handle the grief, or will he crack under stress and depression...? GerIta, might show hints of other couples along the way.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: Denial**

Italy stares, his face remaining in the same shocked expression as when he first saw it happen. There was a moment when he thought the world had frozen as his beloved blonde suddenly paused, blood spurting out behind him. The Italian could barely breath, except to whisper "Germany...?" Then the world swung back into motion and the blonde man fell backwards, hitting the ground with a dull thud. And then Italy felt his breath come back as he screamed his name again.

"Germany! Germany!" he yells, running over. He couldn't bring himself to imagine what the damage was. Why would anyone do this to Germany? He crouches by the taller man, "Germany, are you ok? Germany, do you need a doctor? Germany, please talk to me, I'm scared...Germany...?" His voice drops to a whisper. "Germany..." His eyes open, and widen involuntarily. The blood was beginning to stain the ground - where was the wound? Italy looks over his friends body desperately.

The chest. A single bullet through the chest. Italy bites his lip, trembling nervously. Shaking, he backs away. He wasn't prepared to deal with this. He knew what death was - any idiot knew what it was. But that didn't mean the nation was able to handle it. That was always _Germany's _thing. It was _Germany _who handled the mature stuff, the stuff that the Italian had no hope of coming to terms with or dealing with.

He let out a stifled cry, and sobs. "Germany! Don't do this to me!" he yells suddenly, "I hate you! I hate you and your sausages and...and...I hate you!" Then the Italian falls to his knees and cries until the bullets stop flying and a shorter dark haired man comes over. "Itary-san, what's going on?" He knew instantly from the way his name was pronounced that it was Japan, a fellow Axis member. Italy looks up, his eyes red and puffy from crying.

Japan looks at him, then glances down at the blood stained blonde, lying flat on his back. "Oh..." There's a moment of stunned silence, and then Italy sobs, "he can't be dead. He just can't be..." The Italian forces a smile, but it's broken and so clearly forced that even the stoic Japanese man felt like crying. "Maybe...Maybe if we get him to a doctor...?" There was pleading in his voice. "We can get him to a doctor, right, Japan?"

Now his voice was hopeful, but Japan's eyes simply wandered to the bleeding blonde. He was unsure whether to play along and take Germany to a doctor, or to try and convince the younger man that Germany was indeed dead. Japan sighs, then kneels down to feel Germany's wrist. Amazingly, there was still a pulse - weak, barely there, but it was there. "We have to," he says, "I'rr carr for a ceasefire. In the mean time, get Germany to safety, it's very important."

Italy nods, and somehow manages to pick the taller, heavier male off the ground, half carrying, half dragging, him back to the nearest place where they could get medical help. It turned out to be run by China. Italy wasn't keen on China dealing with Germany, but he needed Germany to be ok. "Help," he says, and China blinks. The moment he sees the injured blonde, limp and lifeless, he nods, understanding instantly. "Of course, aru," he says, "I'll go get a doctor, aru..."

Italy crouches by the blonde, never leaving his side, even when the doctors ask. "Leave him be, aru," says China anxiously, "just focus on Germany." Sure, China didn't agree with what Germany had done...and he didn't particularly like him either, but he couldn't just let a fellow country die. And he hated seeing Italy in such despair. He sighs, and follows Italy, Germany and the doctors out of the room.

Japan hurried to the medical centre. He usually avoided China, but he would made an exception right now because his fellow Axis members needed him. At the very least, he knew Italy would if anything happened to Germany. Japan shudders. The thought was unthinkable - Germany was too strong to die, he was certain. And yet...who really knew...? When he got to the place, Italy and Germany were nowhere to be seen.

However, he could see China sitting down on a chair, looking distressed. "China-san." The elder nation looked up, his head jerking up as if it had been held on a spring for too long. "Oh...Japan. Ni hao..." Japan frowns. China's voice was hollow and wounded. "How is Germany?" He now feared the worst, if China was like this. Hell, if China was acting like this, how would Italy be acting...? China sighs.

"...It's not looking good, aru," he confesses, "the bullet only narrowly avoided his heart...but it's still got a high chance of being fatal..." Japan looks down at the ground. He should have known. "...Itary-san's a moron," he mumbles, "he shourd have brought Germany-san here straight away..." China looks up at him. "...If your best friend was bleeding to death, aru..." says China softly, surprising Japan just a little, "...what would your reaction have been...?"

Japan goes silent. He didn't really have a best friend, and yet...he knew in his heart that if someone he cared about was in Germany's situation, he would have handled it no better than Italy had.

Meanwhile, Italy was clutching Germany's hand so hard that the blonde's blood circulation was probably being cut off. Not that it made much difference. He wasn't an idiot...well...he was...but he knew Germany's situation was bad. The doctors didn't say much to him, except occasionally in hurried Chinese that Italy had no hope of understanding. The Italian eventually fell asleep, still holding his beloved blonde's hand.

The next couple of days were harsh for him. He refused to leave Germany's side, so China and Japan found themselves bringing him food and water. Italy would wake up holding Germany's hand, and fall asleep with his head resting on the man's chest. The weak rise and fall of Germany's chest was growing slower, though, and Japan and China were unsurprised when it finally stopped one night whilst Italy slept.

"...He's rearry dead," whispers Japan hoarsely. "I can't believe it, aru," murmurs China, "...Italy's going to be distraught..." Japan nods slowly. They left the two nations together for their last night together. Germany looked peaceful in death, his face relaxed and soft, his cold hand cupped over Italy's. And Italy slept, cradling Germany softly, unaware of the knowledge that awaited him when he awoke.

Because how could the Italian even imagine Germany dying...? No, the German had promised to be his best friend, forever, to be there and look after him. He had promised to always watch over Italy, and Italy would always hold him to that promise. Germany could never leave him. "Ti amo, Germany," he murmurs in his sleep.

He didn't realise at that point, that the blonde would never be able to tell him the same thing in return.

**A/N I'm so sad...I cried writing this...hope it was just me...I don't want to upset anyone. Heh...I warn you, another four chapters to go, it might get quite bad for poor Italy. *sniffs* Sorry, Italy...**


	2. Chapter 2

**To the reviewer who asked; I hadn't really thought about who killed him...so thanks for making me think about that! Hopefully this answers your question.**

**Chapter Two: Anger**

It had been a while since Germany had died. They had had a simple funeral, with a few people close to him attending. The war had been ended, though not in the way that anyone had expected. Prussia had to take over the remainder of Germany, and neither he, Japan or Italy were talking to France, who insisted he hadn't intended to hit Germany. In all truth, they didn't know if it had been France who gave the fatal shot, but Japan was near certain, and Italy had went along with it.

Italy was lying on his bed now, staring at the ceiling. He hated himself right now. If he had been stronger, better in battle…would he have been able to help Germany? If Germany had been in a different place, would he still be alive? Italy closes his eyes tightly. He hated a lot of people now. It was strange. His older brother was avoiding him. Oh sure, he claimed he wasn't, but he could see that the Italian would peer round doors to see if Italy was in the room before going in.

He also knew that Romano was spending much more time with Spain. Spain…Italy sighs, opening his eyes and sitting up. He didn't mind Spain. He hadn't done much, really. He had more or less sat out from the war. It was the countries who took part in the war that he hated. He hated Japan, even though he knew that Japan had greatly suffered. He hated Prussia, for letting his little brother get involved in a war that would ultimately kill him. He hated the Allies, for their part in Germany's death.

And most of all, he hated France.

He gets up, pulling on some clothes that made him at least look presentable, then heads downstairs. His brother was out. Again. Italy goes into the kitchen, finding some bread and cheese. Usually he'd look for pasta, but right now, he didn't care. He set the loaf of bread down, and searches for a knife. _Why did you kill him? _He brings the knife down on the bread, using as much force as possible. The knife hits the surface with a dull _thud_.

_Why should he have died? His leader was the one making him do all that stuff…_ he stabs the bread again, the knife making a dent in the countertop below. Italy tugs at it, forcing it back out. His hands were shaking, he was trembling, and his heart was racing. Every bit of anger he had been holding back…it was coming out, slowly but surely. He grips the knife firmly, then slams it down into the bread again.

It breaks apart, crumbs falling to the floor, scattering around. _I hate you, France! _He raises the knife, and hits the leftover bread with it. Another bit of bread falls apart, a small piece toppling off the counter. "I hate you!" Italy screams, and he shoves the knife down hard onto the counter, sobbing as he does. "I hate you…you killed him…you killed…" He shakes his head, the shaking now visible as he backs away from the counter.

"Germany…you…you…" he can't say it. _Why did you leave me? _He closes his eyes, his hands making a fist automatically. "I _hate _you!" he screams, turning and pounding his fists onto the wall. "Why did you die?! Why did you leave me?! You said you'd be there for me!" he slams his fist into the wall again, hearing a _crack_ and feeling a throb of pain in his hand. "You said you'd protect me! You said you cared!"

_Thud. Thud. _Italy couldn't hold it in. The wall was becoming an emotional outlet, a make shift punching bag. "Why, why, _why? _You didn't have to die! You should have stayed!" He hit the wall as hard as he could, feeling his hands bruise, and the skin break. He sobs as he continues to hit and kick the wall, before finally slamming his head onto it, and sinking to the floor, curled up and crying. "I miss you, Germany…" he mutters, "…why did you have to leave me…?"

When Romano came home, he frowns, hearing sobbing. "Damn bastard…" he mutters, mostly out of habit. He knew how his brother had felt about Germany. Even if Romano had hated Germany, part of him had always liked him, because he made Italy happy. And now he had the audacity to leave, to die. Sure, it wasn't his fault, but Romano was never a rational person, especially when angry. "Italy?" he calls, and hears a faint sob from the kitchen.

He walks into the room, spotting tiny drops of blood on the wall, crumbs and pieces of bread on the floor and countertop, a knife lying next to the bread. But most importantly, he could see his little brother, curled up and shaking like mad, crying his eyes out. "…Veneziano…" he whispers, crouching next to him, "…what happened?" It was a stupid question, sure, but Romano didn't know what else to do. What was he meant to say?

Italy doesn't reply, and so Romano hesitates, before pulling him into a close hug. What was he meant to say? He didn't understand what it was like to lose someone that close to you. _Damn potato eater…leaving my brother like this…_

And yet, if _Spain _died…

Romano rests his head on his brothers. "Be as angry as you like, fratello," he says softly, "and cry as much as you want. Even if I…don't quite understand your pain…I'll be here." Italy doesn't reply, but Romano feels his brother return the hug slightly, hands going up by Romano's back, and he understood.

**Ok, thank you for reading. And for the two who reviewed, thank you, and apologies for the HUGE wait...I forgot that I had posted this here...**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. If I did, I would not be cruel enough to make this canon.**

**Chapter Three: Bargaining**

_If I can cook dinner in less than half an hour, then this was all a dream._

_Damn._

_Ok, if I can clean the kitchen in ten minutes, I'll wake up and it'll have all been a dream!_

_Shit…_

_Ok, if I can clean the bathroom…_

Romano peers round the door, then turns back to Spain. "I'm really fucking worried about him now," he mutters. Spain nods. In all truth, Romano had been worried even before his brother had decided to go OCD, obsessively cleaning and cooking and counting, as if he thought that it could bring Germany back to life if he did it enough. And Romano didn't want to tell his brother that the reality was…Germany was gone.

"We have to do something about this," says Spain, and Romano nods. "Yeah, but what? We can't just say 'you're acting like a crazy person, calm down', can we?" he mutters, running his hands through his hair. Spain sighs, looking away. He felt bad for Italy. "How long has it been now?" he mumbles, knowing that Romano was keeping track of it all. "Since Germany died, four months. Since my brother's been like _this_? About a month and a half."

Spain nods. That was too long for his liking. He wanted Italy back. The Italy who would wake up at 5 in the morning if it meant he got pasta. The Italy who would throw himself in for a hug when you entered the room. To be honest, it had gotten to the point where Spain was unsure whether he preferred Italy who ran around like a mad thing trying to clean everything in sight, or Italy who would bite your head off if you said the wrong thing.

Italy runs in, and grins at them. "Ciao!" he says happily (breathlessly, Spain notes), "Fratello, you never told me Spain was coming round!" Romano looks uncomfortable. "Um…sorry," he mumbles. "Don't be! Ve, I'll go make some pasta! I'll have it done in twenty eight minutes!" Italy's words tumble out of his mouth, tripping over each other, before he turns and runs into the kitchen. Spain blinks. "Very exact," he says simply.

"Right…" mutters Italy, searching for the ingredients needed, "If this is a dream, then I'll be able to make this in twenty eight minutes, and I'll wake up and Germany will be telling me to wake up because I have training…" His heart falls as he reaches for some tomatoes. Training. He missed training. Oh, yes, he hated the early rises, the endless push ups and having his best friend yell at him for not doing well enough, but he missed it nonetheless.

_"Italy, at least __**try **__to run, would you? Or jog, even," muttered Germany, jogging about ten metres in front of Italy, who was making a half hearted effort to walk fast. Then an idea came to his head. He speeds up a little. "Good, that's-" Germany didn't get a chance to finish, before Italy threw his hands in the air, and yelled, "AGH! ENGLAND'S COMING!" And with that, he burst into a sprint, running off into the distance, with Germany hot on his trail, yelling at him to run this fast when __**not **__in retreat._

He's shaking, clumsily putting the ingredients into the bowl (spilling them everywhere). He hadn't seen England that day, not at all. But he had wanted Germany to chase _him _for once, because _he _was always chasing Germany. Germany was faster, Germany was stronger, Germany was a better tactician. And Italy didn't mind that - he liked having Germany protect him and look after him, backing him up in meetings and defending him in battle.

_Battle. A single bullet through the chest…_Italy shakes his head. _No, count to ten! You thought about it, so count to ten! _"1…2…3…4…" he mutters, kneading the dough, "5…6…7…8…9…10…" He sighs with relief at having done his ritual. He looks at the clock. He doesn't have much time left to do this. He frowns, panicking slightly. He had to do this! He speeds up desperately, trying to keep Germany out of his mind, even though it wasn't working. At all.

He didn't mind that Germany was stronger than him, but part of him _had _wanted Germany to chase him, to catch up with him, instead of it always being the other way round. And Italians could be pretty fast if they wanted to be! So he had ran, making up an excuse as to _why_, because at that point, he didn't know that yes, Germany was gay. When he had found out, it had made him _happy_, especially since Germany told _him _first.

"1…2…3…" Italy mutters, _not _wanting those memories, not again. Those memories could be saved for when he woke up. _But it's not a dream…_he flinches at his own thoughts. "1…2…" he continues counting, going from 1 to 10 repeatedly, not daring to stop. He starts to cook the pasta, and watches the time. A couple minutes to go - could he do it? He tugs at his sleeves nervously, eyes wide with - fear? - and panic.

What if he did it all on time, and he didn't wake up, and it wasn't a dream? He didn't want to have to admit that all the time he spent making his own little deals - _count to one hundred in twenty seconds and it'll be a dream, cook the pasta in half an hour, jog for twenty minutes _- were useless, because in the end, _Germany was dead_. "…1…2…3…" He looks at the time. Too late. He screws his eyes shut, begging himself not to cry.

This was an emotion he recognised; crushing defeat, followed by overwhelming guilt and sadness. When the pasta is done, he returns to Spain and Romano, handing them the dish with dull eyes. He used to have his eyes closed a lot - Japan's theory was that it was due to him _smiling _and _grinning _so much. He hadn't smiled since Germany died, though…and whilst his eyes used to be bright and practically sparkling with happiness, they weren't anymore.

How could he be happy, with his best friend dead? His best friend who he loved. The last time he had felt so strongly for another was back with Holy Rome, when Italy had lived in Austria's house. Italy sighs, eyes closed for a brief moment. "…If I can clean this kitchen within ten minutes, this will all have been a dream…" he mutters, and a small voice whispers back, _but it isn't_. Nonetheless, he finds himself desperately scrubbing away, until it's all clean.

He looks at the time. Eight minutes. He's done it in eight minutes. _Why aren't I waking up…? _Of course he wasn't waking up. This wasn't a dream. He starts to shake again, biting down on his lip to keep the tears back. He sits down, feeling sick. Usually he didn't manage to complete these bargains, so until now he had always been able to lie to himself about why it didn't work. But what excuse could he give now?

_None._

Italy closes his eyes. "…If I wash my hands twenty times, maybe it'll cancel this one out," he mutters, then gets up and heads over to the sink.

Romano and Spain watch from the corner of the room, unsure of what to do or say to stop Italy's obsessive habits before it gets out of hand and out of control.

**Ok, um...yeah, this is my least favourite chapter so far, the next two will be better, though. In case you hadn't guessed, this is based on some psychology that says that there are five stages of grief; Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. You probably already worked that much out, but in case you didn't, that is what I'm basing this story on.**

**By the way, thank you to those who have reviewed, favourited and followed this! ^.^**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey! Another update! XD Heh, now I need to finish the final chapter...please tell me what you think of this one...**

**Chapter Four: Depression**

Italy was still cleaning at three in the morning. But it was different. His hair hung limp by the sides of his face, his cheekbones were beginning to poke through, and his eyes were duller than ever. The cleaning was ritualistic, done for the sake of _doing_ something, whatever that _something _was. He knew he should sleep, but he couldn't, hence the dark rings that were rapidly forming under his eyes. He stands up straight, discarding the washcloth.

The bathroom is clean. He has cleaned it three times since Midnight. Italy drops the cleaning products, and returns to bed, not bothering to get under the blankets or get ready - he just lies on top and closes his eyes. There was no point in cleaning anyways these days - his brother said he was getting depressing to be around, and generally avoided most rooms in the house. Japan was dealing with politics (Italy had a feeling that was a polite way of saying 'I want to be left alone'), and Germany wasn't going to pop round to visit.

But once the thought entered his mind, he knew he had to do it. Which was why he needed to _get to sleep_. Because once he was asleep, he couldn't use up the energy that _he didn't have _doing useless chores. Sleep was little comfort though - dreams full of demons that chased him, long staircases that he'd run down, because he could _see _Germany, and yet no matter how _hard _he ran, or how _long _he ran for, he'd never catch him up before the dream was over.

This dream was one that left him in a very dark room. Was it even a room? He had no way of telling, he just knew that it was dark, and he couldn't see very much. He would hear someone calling his name, and stumble forwards, blindly trying to find his way in the dark. As the dream progresses, the voice becomes clearer, louder, and even angrier. "Italy! Italy!" He recognises the voice; it's Germany. He tries to yell back, to say that he's _trying_, but his voice catches every time.

He is silent in this dream.

When he wakes up, he doesn't _get _up. He can hear his brother in a nearby room, shouting about how the place stinks of bleach. _At least it's clean_, thinks Italy, not caring enough to get up. Germany liked it clean, and even if Romano would never admit it, he preferred it to be clean as well. Italy could care less about germs and dirt and dust and all the rest of the mess that trailed over the house. But on his better days, it gave him something to _do_.

"Italy! Italy!" he blinks, before recognising that this voice belonged to _Romano_, not to Germany. He shifts his weight onto a few pillows, lifting himself up. "…Si?" Soft voice; quiet, hoarse, unused for so long. "Oi, Veneziano! Why the fuck are you still in bed?" Italy blinks, turning his head to see the clock. Ah, it was nearing midday. He shrugs. "I don't feel like getting up," he mumbles. Romano glares at him. "Veneziano, the world meeting is in less than an hour," he snaps.

Italy shrugs, curling up under the blankets. "Don't wanna go," he mumbles. "You have to go!" yells Romano. "No…I don't. There's two Italies, and they only need one. Go yourself," he mutters, clenching his eyes shut. _Don't cry, don't let the tears flow. _He was right, of course. Only one Italy was needed for the world meeting. And Italy Veneziano sure as hell wasn't going. There's a moment of silence, where Romano debates this internally.

"…Fine," he mutters, then turns and walks away. Sometime later, Italy hears the front door slam. He sighs, closing his eyes tightly. _They only need one Italy. They don't need me. _It was true, wasn't it? There were two Italies. What was the point? Why did they act like he was needed, like they cared? They shouldn't care. Without Germany, Italy wasn't even sure if they _did _care. Sure, he had friends - Poland, Japan and Spain, for example.

And those same friends made a pretty pathetic attempt to be there for him. They had pretty much abandoned him, and although he felt he should hate them, he didn't really blame them. He curls up tighter, clutching the blankets and pillows. _I'd abandon me if I could_. Could he? He blinks in surprise as the thought arrives. He tries to think of what the world would be like without him. _Well…Switzerland would be less annoyed…_

That was true - no more Italy to run across his lawn. _Japan wouldn't have to get nervous_. Yes, he wouldn't have Italy trying to hug him and invade his personal space. _Romano would be the main Italy. _He'd love that, surely. _Prussia would be happy. _Italy was partly responsible for Germany's death, right? Prussia would be _glad _to see him go. _Spain never really cared. I bet Poland didn't either…_ Italy moves slightly under the covers.

But how could he abandon himself? Well, he supposed…Germany had died from a gunshot. Could a simple bullet kill a nation? He frowns. It was probably different - Germany had a brother who could take over for him. And now he thought about it, so did Italy. He hesitates. _A gun? Would I be able to do it? _He didn't want to back out at the last minute…he hesitates. At least if he died, everyone would be happier…and he could see Germany again…

He sniffs, then forces himself up out of bed. He feels heavy. _Did I gain weight? _Forcing himself back to the bathroom, he lifts up his top. He's lost a lot of weight, with no appetite. He's underweight as well, weighing only seven and a half stone. He frowns. He hadn't expected that. But the ribs beginning to stick out show him that yes, that is indeed his weight. He sighs - no wonder everyone kept telling him to eat.

Not that it mattered anymore.

He searches for a piece of paper and a pen. He needed a note, right? Just a note, to tell them that he was sorry…for everything…his spine hurts as the skin stretches over it when he leans over the page, scribbling a brief note - _I'm sorry. I couldn't take it anymore. You'll be happier without me, anyways. Don't blame yourselves either. _It was short, but he knew he'd cry if he made it any longer or any more detailed, and _damn it_, he didn't want that!

Now…where to find a gun…he racks his brain, his thoughts fuzzy and his head pounding. He begins searching - they _had _to have one somewhere…

"Damn it! Why the _hell _isn't he picking up his phone?" snaps Romano, causing Poland, Japan and Prussia to turn to him. "What's wrong?" asks Japan. "He can't get a hold of Italy," explains Spain, "he's tried calling him about eight times now…" Poland's eyes widen, and Prussia speaks up. "Hey…is Italy even ok? He's been unawesomely sad recently…" he says, trailing off, "I mean…I know _why_, but do you think we should check on him?"

"Like, totally!" declares Poland, then he pauses, as they all turn to Romano. "What do you think?" asks Japan quietly. Romano hesitates. "…I don't want to fucking barge in on him," he mutters, "…but I'm worried. He _always _picks up…" He thinks for a few moments. "Alright, let's go. If we're quick, we should be able to make it back within half an hour…" Japan nods. "I'rr drive," he says quickly. Regardless of the situation, he was _not _letting an Italian drive.

Italy was shaking as he loads the gun. He didn't want to mess this up. He had just _one _chance. Eyes closed, he raises it to his head. He rests his finger on the trigger, and he stops shaking. A wave of calm rushes past him, along with a sudden reluctance. _No…I have to…I have to…_he takes a deep breath, then blinks, feeling a tear on his cheek. More importantly was _why _that tear was there. Opposite him on the wall was a photograph. It was quite old - taken back before world war one had started. Before Italy had been Germany's enemy, even.

It was of him, his brother, and Germany. _And Germany_. Photographs, Italy thinks, are funny. They never change, and they remain as they are forever. They age, the corners wrinkle, they can smudge and fade, but they're _the same_. The Germany in the photograph was _not _dead. He was _not _bleeding. There was _no _bullet through his chest. In fact, it was a rare picture where you could say that Germany was _smiling_. (That alone, Italy felt, was worthy of a photograph.) There was Italy, clutching Germany's arm and holding up his other hand in a peace sign. He was grinning. His brother was merely scowling at the camera, pointedly standing about a foot away from Germany with his arms folded.

Italy lowers the gun. His brother had been in a bad mood that day. Sure, he was always in a bad mood, but that day had been different. _"He's my brother, but I never get to see him! That makes me so fucking angry!" _He had said to Germany. _"And why don't you keep a better eye on him? He's always coming home with bruises from that damn torture you call training!" _Italy's eyes dart down, another tear slipping. His brother _did _care, yes. Romano had always been there. _Except for recently. _But _no_, that wasn't true. _Italy doesn't reply, and so Romano hesitates, before pulling him into a close hug..._

Romano cared about him, for reasons that Italy, quite frankly, could not understand. For all his yelling and shouting, when push came to shove, Romano loved him, and for the first time in a long while, Italy felt _happy_. Happy, because he finally realised that _someone_ cared. Someone still alive, someone who would scream and shout _and cry _if he wasn't there. Because if his brother found him dead...

Well, Italy knew what it was like to lose someone you loved.

And who else? Italy couldn't think straight. Tears were running down his cheeks, he was shaking, the gun discarded. He couldn't think of anyone else. Was it worth living purely because _one _person cared about him? Italy swallows, then nods, answering his own question. He didn't care about people who wouldn't care. _But they would_. But he cared about the person who would. _Who does._

He turns away from the gun, walking out the door just in time to hear the front door open. "Veneziano!" His brother. "Itary!" Japan? "Hey! Italy!" Was that _Poland? _"Boss Spain is here!" "Spain, shut up!" Spain as well? He squeezes his eyes shut, careful not to cry. "I'm here," he calls, his voice cracking, "I'm here..." He hears footsteps, and sees his brother running over, hugging him - _hugging him _- tightly. "You stupid...stupid...why the _fuck _didn't you answer? I was so _fucking_ worried!" yells Romano.

Italy doesn't answer, the others coming over and asking him questions - how he was, why he didn't answer, what was wrong, why was he crying...

Italy swallows, then pushes away from Romano. "Fratello, I..." He needed to tell Romano. About what he had been about to do. About everything that lead up to where he was. About how he felt when he lied and said he was ok. "...I need to tell you something." Romano nods, making eyes contact. "I understand." _I care._

And he did. Because Italy was his brother, and Romano would go through hell and back before he stopped caring.

**Heh...hope that ended ok. It was going to end with Italy being interrupted, but then I decided I'd rather have Italy make the choice to stay alive himself. Hope it was ok! Or good. Or better than good! Hopefully not bad...**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: Acceptance**

Italy stares down at the gravestone in front of him. _Ludwig Beilschmidt. _It had been so long since they had last spoken, so long since he had said that name without it being sorrowful, regretful, _angry_. He smiles. "Hey Germany. It's me, Italy!" he says, smiling. _He'd want me to smile. _"Uh, so, I'm sorry I didn't come sooner…I've had a bit of a rough time…" he says, then sighs. It was quiet. Was Germany even listening to him?

"I mean…first, I was convinced you weren't dead. Everyone kept saying the odds weren't in your favour. But I kept saying you'd be fine. And I was wrong…" he sighs, "I woke up, and you were dead. I told you that I loved you…and you could never…tell me that you loved me back…" A tear begins to slip, and falls down his cheek. Italy smiles, wiping it away. "For a while, I hated you. I really did. I was so angry, because you left me, even though…it wasn't your fault.

You wouldn't have left me if you had the choice. I know that now," he says softly, "see? I may be an idiot, doitsu, but I learn…I think I've learnt a lot." He sighs, and clutches the bundle of flowers he was holding tightly to his chest. Daisies and Centaurea - the national flowers of Italy and Germany. Because he wanted Germany to know - if he was watching (Was he watching?) - that these flowers were from him.

"I…I learnt that people care about me. Romano…Japan…even Spain and Poland…they care about me, Germany…more than I thought…and I learnt that…things get better," he says quietly. Yes, things got better. Germany was always going to be dead, but maybe things would get easier…even if just a little bit… "I mean…part of me thinks otherwise…because you're never coming back…and it hurts, Germany, right here." Italy holds his hand over his heart.

"I don't think I'm ever going to get used to not having you with me, Germany," he says honestly, "I loved you, and without you here…it feels like a very empty world…not long ago, I wanted to end my own life…" His hand goes to his mouth as his voice begins to crack, tears trickling down his cheeks. "Romano was so upset…I thought he'd yell and scream and tell me that he hated me…but he just cried…"

Italy swallows, trying to regulate his breathing. Romano had _cried_, and held his brother's hand, telling him to _call _him next time, to find _help_. Telling him, asking him, _begging _him to never _ever _do that again. And Italy had nodded, too stunned to do anything or say anything except agree. And now… "I…I don't want to die anymore, Doitsu…" _Doitsu_. He hadn't said that for so long…too long… "Us nations…well…we live forever, don't we? Or, we're meant to…"

He takes a deep breath, trying not to shake as he whispers, "it's going to be…a very long…and lonely…forever…without you." The trees nearby shook, leaves falling gently to the floor as if even the flora agreed with him. "I wish I could…change this. I don't want to spend forever, knowing that I'll never see you again. I want to be human, mortal, so that I'll someday die and see you again…but I won't. I'm never going to see…see you again…s-so…"

He wipes a tear from his eye. He hadn't intended to say this out loud…it was a mistake…but… "I'll have to make all our memories worth it, won't I? All of our memories! Even the silly ones…even the ones I wish I could forget…because they're all I have now. I…need you…but…" Italy closes his eyes, "it's going to be ok, Doitsu. I'm going to be ok. Prussia's going to be ok. Japan, Romano…_we're all going to be ok!_ So, wherever you are. Sleep well…we'll never forget you, but we need to move on with our lives."

With that, he places the flowers gently on the grave, and stands up straight, smiling at the gravestone before turning and walking away. Barely more than a few steps away, he pauses, closing his eyes. _I love you, Germany. _Italy wipes a tear from his cheek, then continues walking away, grinning when he sees his friends waiting for him; Prussia waving like his arm might fall off, Romano rolling his eyes and leaning against a tree with Spain grinning like an idiot next to him. Even Japan and Poland, looking at him with pride.

Italy grins, and runs over. "Ve! Done!" he yells, and Prussia grins, hugging him. "Awesome! Hey, we were getting hungry. Want to join us for lunch?" he asks, and the Italian nods excitedly, jumping up and done. "Si! Si!" he says happily. Poland laughs, and Japan smiles. "So long as it's not potatoes," mutters Romano, stuffing his hands in his pockets and walking with the group. "Or Engrish food," adds Japan, causing everyone to shudder.

Italy laughs. He was happy. Because someone was missing. But they weren't gone.

At least, not from his heart.

And somewhere, a blonde German was smiling down at him. "Ich liebe dich…" he murmurs to the Italian, then closes his eyes.

Now that he knew his loved ones would be ok, maybe he could rest in peace.

**Short chapter, yes. Please forgive me? I just didn't feel like it should be a long one. Plus, I struggled a bit with it...**

**Anyhow, thank you for sticking with this! Those who have reviewed, followed or favourited this, I am very grateful and shall show my gratefulness by sending internet hugs *gives internet hugs***

**Now I might give sad fanfictions a break...oh, who are we kidding, I have an idea for another one already. *sighs* Sigh...still!**

**Thanks for reading X**


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